Literature | Sanne Krug: Crossing the Boundary of Despair

“Where do you want to go?” asks the young driver through the open passenger window.

"To the West," I answer excitedly, looking over at Vero. Vero slowly stands up.

“I’m going to Hanover,” says the young woman.

“Yes, exactly,” I say with relief.

I get in the front, Vero gets in the back with the luggage.

Doris comes from Prenzlauer Berg and is now visiting her friend.

"I've known them since childhood, they're coming over this fall. And where are you from?"

I point to Vero: "Berlin." And tap myself: "Leipzig."

All the heaviness from the East was suddenly gone: the helplessness, the swamp, the deceit, the aggression.

"Really? I think it's great how you did that without violence. It's crazy, hey!"

Yes, it's truly insane what you don't notice in Berlin, even though it's the capital of the GDR and always on the cutting edge. It seems things are getting poorer there, too. I say aggressively: "It's been a long time since there was violence. At the demonstration, you have to be for the D-Mark, otherwise you'll get a beating," I'm exaggerating a bit.

Vero pinches my shoulder warningly, but Doris agrees: "Exactly! The Westmark was our salvation! It couldn't be any different, right!"

“Oh yeah?” I ask pointedly.

"Well, what would you do without it? You probably won't be going far, will you?" Doris asks.

“Ireland,” I say.

Doris laughs: "Of course: the crazy people to Ireland!"

“We don’t need much,” Vero concedes.

I wonder how Vero knows what we need, but I'm grateful that her optimism seems to be readily available in crucial situations.

Doris isn't impressed. She explains to us cheerfully: "Well, I didn't collect my money right away. I still want some of it."

She giggles to herself, as if she has a secret plan that surprises even her because it's so amazing she's completely lost track of it. I glance over my shoulder at Vero, puzzled. Vero grins and asks, a bit mockingly, "Oh, yeah? What?"

I have to grin too because Vero is so awake now.

Doris starts off as if she's memorized the Otto catalog, not just in the clothing section, but also in kitchen appliances, garden furniture, hobby room equipment, interior design, and house construction. And when she's finished with Otto, she fantasizes about the West, the lucky charm and dream-fulfiller.

Everything sounds so doable and good and rosy that we can't stop laughing. She can't be serious, is she serious? It sounds like that, it can't be true, haha. We have so much fun, even long after Doris has left. We laugh and laugh all the way beyond Hanover and for a long time we don't even notice how things are going downhill.

We've been standing at a rest stop exit for an hour and a half, and nothing's working. Discouraged, I suggest begging the people in the parking lot before they get into their cars. Then they have to tell us straight to our faces that they're leaving us helpless and leaving us to freeze to death in the night.

"That's coercion. I won't do that," says Vero.

"Do you have a better suggestion?" I ask, annoyed.

She turns away and simply looks in another direction. It's a disgrace that she's supposed to chat up people here, especially in the West, where most of the people are West Germans. All of them unknown beings. Outrageous, yes, but Vero, with her long blonde hair and everything, is a winner; in other words, her success rate, unlike me, is through the roof. If only she wanted to.

I linger at the exit for another half hour, then insist on Vero's cooperation. Reluctantly, she trudges to our first victim, but there's no way through the ceiling. She returns with slumped shoulders: "Forget it, it'll never work."

She sits down next to me at the edge of the parking lot.

"No wonder," I say. "You rushed at them like you were going to rob them. They had panic in their eyes. Show some fun so they realize they're missing out if they don't take us with them."

"Oh yeah? Are you having fun?" asks Vero.

That's not the question here, I think, but I'd better keep my mouth shut, because Vero is already grumpy enough. I'm surprised at how quickly she's overwhelmed. Being nice isn't enough right now. A little action and a few ideas would be good. But Vero is stubborn.

But then a rickety old minibus finally pulls up. It drives so far into the meadow behind the gravel that I think if we get into it with our heavy luggage, it will sink into the ground, and we'll dig ourselves into the earth, slowly but surely, never to emerge from the dirt again. Five minutes later, we're all inside the van, all our junk, and we're with a cheerful student who, unfortunately, is only driving a few kilometers, 20 to be exact, because then he has to get off the second highway. He just wants to quickly get to Hameln to see his friend, and he can drop us off in Rehren.

“Do you want to come along or get out again?” asks the fun-loving guy.

We've been standing in that crazy Nenndorf for so long now that it's irrelevant what Rehren looks like. We've crossed the threshold of despair, beyond which it all becomes pointless, no matter what you do: staying here is pointless, driving to Rehren is pointless. Amsterdam makes sense, but not today. So, Rehren, but despite the threshold of despair, Rehren was a complete shock. Things can always get worse, and here: not a single car in sight. For forty-two minutes.

After forty-two minutes, a tiny subcompact car stops right next to us. A very young, very artistically dressed, very nice woman gets out, wearing a turban and a million chains around her neck, which clang loudly as she opens the mini-trunk for our luggage and looks at us in a friendly way: Let's go, I'll give you a lift to the next town, because now we're on the highway, it's getting dark, what are you doing there?! Yes, of course, that's better, we hadn't even thought of that.

Next city sounds good, and I automatically picture Düsseldorf in my mind's eye because it's the only city I know in the West. My brother sent me a plane ticket back in February. I was supposed to visit him in his new home. He picked me up in a taxi, and we drove through the city center to his apartment in Bilk. Then we went to the Alte Liebe, then to the Old Town in the evening, and then to the Ratinger Hof disco. The West was great: those huge, clean buildings with the swanky banks inside, the colorful neon nights, the advertising on every wall, the well-dressed people, the carefree atmosphere, and all the possibilities. The evening before last, we sat at the Spanish restaurant on Bolkerstrasse. My runaway brother was happy, and I felt more certain than ever that blood is thicker than water. We were a family, nothing would ever tear us apart again, all past quarrels were over, and now we belonged together. And into this overwhelming feeling came a new sense of self-evidence. Why shouldn't I make it in the West when I could be so full of life here? All the heaviness of the East was suddenly gone: the helplessness, the quagmire, the betrayal, the aggression. Only lightness. But my life was in Leipzig, and lightness was afraid of flying.

The text is an excerpt from Sanne Krug’s novel “Irrland,” in which she tells a clever, funny, and thoughtful story about two adventurous young women in the post-reunification era (Sanne Krug: Irrland, delablå, br., 15€).